


What The Lady  Likes

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Cunnilingus, Dark Luna, F/F, F/M, Guilt, Manipulation, Non-Linear Narrative, Sexual Manipulation, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, implied infidelity, partially epilogue compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: No one knows that she was almost Sorted into Slytherin.  (She’d reasoned her way out of it, of course.)Things aren't always as they seem.





	What The Lady  Likes

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to JK Rowling and associated publishers.
> 
> The description of Luna's party-wear is taken directly from lq_traintracks story "Brilliant" (which is wonderful and you should read it), and I so appreciate her letting me use it in this as it was the direct catalyst for this story to appear in my brain.
> 
> So many thanks to Jenni for the beta.
> 
> My apologies to everyone. I really, really love Luna, I swear.  
> *runs away and hides*

Luna has a lot of descriptors. Batty, mad, dreamy, mental, loyal, and even brave. There are some she enjoys more than others, obviously. Loony, for example, is a nice little play on words. She also once heard herself referred to as “The Flightiest Eagle in Ravenclaw,” and she’d laughed herself almost sick over that one.

No one knows that she was almost Sorted into Slytherin. (She’d reasoned her way out of it, of course.)

It’s fairly common knowledge now that Harry almost was, too. Why he’d let that get out, she can’t imagine. It must be the reason he ultimately fell into Gryffindor. They have the most reckless habit of giving up all of their mystique -- which is truly unfortunate because when people don’t suspect you have any, it ultimately gives you a lot of power.

Luna likes power.

Oh, not in the way Voldemort did, of course. Again, she has trouble linking his actions with his motivations because why on earth would you put yourself into the position of having enemies? Enemies try to defeat you. They try to take your influence. They malign your character.

No one will _ever_ do that to her. She’s made sure of it.

If Tom Riddle had been as smart as everyone says he was, he would have quickly amassed a fortune and spent his life in luxury and pleasure, which Luna feels is really the best goal. To want for nothing, to be respected if not admired, to be trusted. You can call in favours when people trust you. Or when they feel bad for you. Or when they feel guilty.

Instead, Tom had decided to split his soul to make six Horcruxes, and for Merlin’s sake, that’s just silly. Luna only has one, as insurance. The Philosopher’s Stone is a much better bet. She’d say it was a shame that Harry ruined that for him, but Voldemort really had gotten awfully greedy at that point. It was just distasteful.

You don’t _need_ to collect followers and commit mass murder if you’ve figured out a way to get unlimited resources and be able to live forever -- with just a touch of hard work. 

** *** 

She’s sixteen when she’s taken hostage at Malfoy Manor.

The dungeon is cold and a bit damp, but she has no trouble coping with that. What’s worse was the boredom, honestly. Nothing to do but count the cracks in the stones, nothing to guess the time of day by but what sort of food they choose to deliver, or what Draco is wearing. 

Sometimes, she surmises it's the middle of the night by his pyjamas. They perhaps drag him out of bed to bring down a bowl of cold porridge and some crusty bread, who knows why. Usually, he just shoves it through the slot in her cell, avoiding her eyes while rubbing sleep out of his. Other times he’s dressed in his school robes, as though about to leave. She’s gleaned from voices standing too near to the door at the top of the dungeon that Draco returns home every weekend, which at least gives her a baseline with which to count days.

Whenever he is home, he is apparently the choice to deliver goods and services to her. She’d be more grateful for getting _anything_ they allowed if she didn’t understand the knots that tied everything together: Voldemort wanted Harry, Harry knew her, and her father would do anything to get her back.

Makes perfect sense, really.

It’s still a little funny seeing Draco like this, though. Face vaguely frozen and barely shuttered against the terror he must certainly be feeling. She’s never really liked Draco, and she certainly doesn’t feel sorry for him now, but there’s something so— _still_ about him, sometimes, now that he’s learned he can’t rely on his father for everything. Controlled, yes, that’s the word.

Luna enjoys control. Of oneself, of others; it doesn’t really matter. She has a sneaking suspicion that if Draco can get out of this alive, he’ll use what he’s learned to rise to a place in which he could be useful in her life. And, really, she has nothing else to do.

She waits until he’s delivered her first meal on her second week in captivity before she addresses him with anything other than a quiet, “Thank you.”

“I don’t blame you, you know,” she says softly.

Draco darts a shocked glance at her, as though he didn’t realise she was still capable of conversational speech. She tries not to snort, and pastes an understanding look on her face. 

“What do you know about it, you filthy little—” he starts to sneer, then drops off.

“Mudblood?” Luna shakes her head earnestly at him. “That’s not a very nice word, Draco, and anyway you know that’s not true. We’re—what, second cousins?”

“Third,” he mumbles grudgingly. 

“Anyway,” she continues calmly, “I just wanted you to know that. That I knew it wasn’t your fault. What they were doing. It’s nice to see a face I recognise from school.”

Something in Draco’s expression cracks, and is quickly covered. He is quiet for a few moments, staring at the wall behind her. Then: “Do you need anything?”

“Well, they’ve given me a blanket and they give me food two or three times a day. They don’t send down that nasty werewolf, you know the one—”

“Greyback,” Draco supplies in a low voice. He gusts out a breath. “I can’t—can’t do much. But, maybe, a book or something.”

Luna allows her eyes to shine at him. “That would be _so appreciated, Draco_ ,” she breathes, and doesn’t miss the way his silver eyes dilate in response. He pulls away from her cell, shuddering slightly, and walks quickly away.

*

It’s the third time he’s come to her in this capacity but only the first that they’ve done _this_ , and Luna bites down hard on her forearm to keep from making noise. Draco’s not so careful. His quiet grunting bounces off the walls in her cell, echoing eerily. The first two times it was easier to stay quiet -- quick, frantic kissing as he’d pressed her to the wall, one hand thrust into her knickers as he’d rubbed his cock against her hip. She’s made no complaint, but has been careful not to initiate anything, either.

He slams his cock into her over and over, rocking his hips with too much force. It hurts, just a touch more than she expected after the surprisingly nimble fumblings from his fingers the last time, thrusting inside her; two, then three. Luna gives a quiet gasp and spreads her knees a bit wider as he pushes forward, one of his long-fingered hands cupping her jiggling breast. 

Intercourse is… strange. Enjoyable, but strange. She’s pragmatic enough that she knows her virginity doesn’t really matter, but mostly she’s just never thought about it much. There are always other things on her mind. But Draco’s cock is long and slender, and so very, very stiff. She feels split open from it and she rocks her hips up to meet his thrusts, taking him deeper as her body clenches automatically. She’s dripping wet, so she must be more physiologically interested in the process than she’d previously thought, or perhaps just more attracted to Draco. He does look quite the sight at the moment, his narrow jaw clenched, his eyes set and burning. 

He releases her breast and reaches down between them to hunt for her clitoris. Luna shivers a bit. His hips are clumsy but his hand is sure — he’s _definitely_ done _that_ part before — and he gives the bundle of nerves a light flick with the blunt tip of his thumb. She arches involuntarily, shutting her eyes tight and turning her face away as he circles the spot with increasing pressure.

“Feels good?” he croaks out. Luna doesn’t say anything, but wraps a leg around his right hip, silently pulling him closer. Some of his sweat drips onto her forehead.

He begins moving his thumb faster, steady, like the shoves of his cock inside her, and Luna is surprised — that doesn’t happen often — to feel the coil of her desire suddenly loosen and break. Her muscles tighten and relax as waves of pleasure course over her and she throws her head back against the dirty blanket, gritting her teeth with the force of her climax. Draco groans hard, hips pumping frantically, and then he starts to still. She feels his cock throbbing inside her, just for a moment, before he pulls out. He’s already coming, and the rest of his spunk leaves sticky white streaks over the blond curls at her pubis as he strokes himself until he’s done.

She waits for a moment, then scoots out from under him and silently gathers her tattered trousers to put them on. She buttons up her shirt.

Draco restores his own clothing -- he’d basically only removed his trousers and pants to his knees, anyway. He slips his wand from his sleeve and casts a quick spell over his hair and face, then his cock before his zips up. “I didn’t mean to finish in you,” he offers after a moment.

Luna shrugs.

“There’s a spell for—for making sure there’s no baby.”

“That would be good, thanks,” she says quietly, and feels the cool tingle of his magic splash over her. He hesitates, then casts another, which she recognises as a cleaning charm. How lovely; he’s trying to be nice. 

“You—you finished, right?” he asks, almost timidly. “It felt good?”

Luna blinks rapidly until her eyes grow wet before she looks at him. “Yes,” she admits in a low, shaking voice. “It felt good. Thank you for not—trying to hurt me.” 

She’s thought about what she would say for days, and settled on that because there are so many delicious ways it could be misconstrued. 

Draco looks astonished as her words sink in, then vaguely ill. Perfect. “But—”

“You should go,” she tells him softly. “Before they come down to check on you.”

“Lovegood…”

“Yes, Draco?”

“I just— I’m not the sort who would— This has been—” He looks a little lost, and if Luna were a different sort of person, she’d feel genuinely sorry for him. As it is, though, she can’t risk pushing it too far. It's enough that the seeds of an idea have been planted. They’ll serve her in good stead, should she ever need them.

She gives him a gentle smile to absolve him enough that it doesn’t become an immediate issue. “You should go,” she says again, a bit more warmly. “I’d hate for them to replace you with someone else.” Then, with a bit of a twinkle, “I know you’re not _really_ like them, Draco.”

He’s bobbing his head in time with her words, relief spreading over his sharp features. “Yes.” He forces a little laugh, then casts her a regretful look. “Listen, I overheard that they’re going to bring someone in here with you soon. I don’t know who. But it should be in the next couple of days or so. …Should I come back before then?”

“You deliver my food when you’re here, Draco,” she says lightly.

A muscle in his cheek twitches. “I mean, for... for company,” he clarifies. It’s the first time he’s asked instead of assuming from her face or body language or her eye contact (which is quite expert, she knows) — and that’s good, because if he’d chosen to be clearer from the outset, she wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, later.

“I like your company,” she says simply. “It’s very quiet in here.”

His mouth presses into a thin line; that sick look is back on his face. “What just happened—”

A sudden clang coming from the outer doors at the top of the stairwell makes him jump up, and the desperation of his fear bleeds back into his expression. He stares down at her for a moment, chewing on his lip. His eyes fall on her mouth, as though he’d like to kiss her goodbye the way he has the last couple of visits — it comforts him, she knows, to have that physical contact of another person, that closeness. That slapping of skin-on-skin and rubbing of bodies so he can lose himself for a few moments. It might comfort her, too, if she were remotely afraid of dying.

Luna releases a sigh, letting him interpret the sound as he wants. His eyes are still focused on her mouth, so she plumps it a little, pushing out her bottom lip just a touch. He ducks his long form and kisses her carefully, almost apologetically, and she doesn’t kiss him back, but neither does she pull away.

“Then I’ll come back, yes?” he asks, walking backward and closing her cell with his wand. She nods, and he takes a deep, calming breath. “Okay, then. I’ll—I’ll—”

“Goodnight, Draco,” she murmurs, lifting her hands to play with her hair. He gives her a quick, uncertain smile and strides away.

They bring in Ollivander only a few hours later. She controls her irritation. 

It’s not _ideal_ that she won’t have more time to work with Draco, but she’s done enough, for now. And anyway, Ollivander is an interesting fellow. He probably knows a lot more than people give him credit for.

Luna really, really likes knowing things.

***** 

 

“Lovegood.” Draco nods cordially, sweeping his hand to usher her in. She’s not at all surprised that he’s the one meeting her at the door, though he probably usually has a house-elf take care of it. 

“Hello, Draco. Thank you for taking the time to see me,” Luna says pleasantly, walking in past him and coming to a halt in the middle of his cavernous foyer. “My, it’s so much prettier in here, now.” She flirts a vague smile in his direction. “I like the flowers.”

“Thank you,” he says smoothly, although his Adam’s apple bobs briefly over his perfectly-knotted tie. “I can take very little credit, unfortunately. Astoria has free reign when it comes to decorating.”

She follows him to a parlour off to the left. The sitting furniture is covered in a bright white fabric, clean and inviting and there’s an arrangement of stargazer lilies in a clear glass bowl in the centre of the coffee table. Luna admires them for a moment as she takes a seat on the sofa. 

Draco sits in a chair across from her, draping one leg over the other. There is a brief lull, and she feels the sudden tension of anticipation wander through her. 

“I was surprised to get your Owl,” he finally says.

“Where you?” she returns, cocking her head to one side. “Why would you be?”

His face softens fractionally as he studies her. She’s dressed to project a certain image, the same way she always does, whether it be socks worn as mittens or vegetables worn as jewels. Today, it’s a flowy peach shift, just a touch darker than her pale skin. Her hair is braided with pale pink ribbons. 

Draco sighs. “I believe this is the first time we’ve been alone together since—since the war,” he says. She’s surprised by his directness, but doesn’t let it show.

Closing her eyes, she lets a small smile sit briefly on her mouth. “I believe you’re right. I never thought about it. We see each other so often.”

“In passing. At events.” He tilts a glance toward the door to the foyer, which is partway open, and lowers his voice. “I’ve sent you owls.”

“I received them, thank you,” she says primly. They were full of—well, apologies that sounded like questions. Was she all right? Did she need anything? Did she know that she would always be able to come to the House of Malfoy if she ever did? Would she like to discuss things with him, sometime? In no way did they imply a deeper desire to continue their brief joinings in the dungeon, but she liked that he was still stewing on it.

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “You never answered the last few.”

“Things were busy after the War, you know. My father needed help with the paper — we were selling so many copies — and I ended up taking my N.E.W.T.’s that summer,” she explains.

Draco sits back further in his seat, relaxing a little. He waves his wand lazily and a full tea service appears on the coffee table, complete with a tray of cucumber sandwiches and a plate of sugared biscuits. 

“How lovely,” she exclaims, leaning forward to pile one of the tiny plates with the sandwiches. “It’s so nice when people remember the things that you like. I remember you bringing me these; I’d never had them before.”

A subtle tension gathers back in his shoulders, in the line of his neck. “I did what I could. Which wasn’t enough.”

“It never is, Draco. It's why we should count ourselves so fortunate when the Nargles decide to leave us to our own devices,” she tells him sagely, then takes a bite of the food.

Draco blinks. “Yes, um. I’m glad to see that you’re well.” He pauses, hesitates, and Luna glows inside. She continues eating her sandwich as he takes a fortifying breath. “I’ve long wanted to address what happened between us in the dungeons.”

It’s a satisfaction as slow-moving and sweet as molasses sliding through her. She smiles at him and puts her plate down on her lap, leaning forward. “It’s been nearly ten years, Draco. You were under extreme stress at the time. And—well, I _did_ …” She trails off, biting her lip and applying a conflicted expression to her face. “Anyhow, I’m fine. I’ve always known that’s not who you are. And you helped take care of me, too.”

It’s _just_ vague and confusing enough to be rolling around in his head for the next several years. It forgives him of much, without specifying what. 

But unfortunately, he can’t leave it. “You’re saying—that I really— that it wasn’t—?” 

Luna sighs. She wipes her fingers on a linen napkin. “Do you like talking about this?”

His normally alabaster face is washed of all colour, leaving him with a greyish complexion. “I think we should—”

“Because I don’t,” she says as firmly as she can without losing the lilting quality of her voice. “And I’ve long thought of you as a friend,” she adds, “even as a captive. Your owls were very sweet.”

“Even as a captive,” he says faintly. 

“Well, yes.”

“You were my prisoner.” Oh, Merlin, he looks ill again. It’s too funny.

“Draco,” she admonishes gently, “Why are we still talking about this?”

The blank, panicked look in his eye disappears as he does whatever he needs to, mentally, to pull back into himself. His hands are shaking a bit but, as she watches, he fists them once tightly and then loosens them, and they become immediately steady. He inhales through his nose.

Luna allows her smile to grow a bit. She was right about him.

“My apologies,” he says abruptly, clipped. “Of course you wouldn’t wish to revisit it.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” she murmurs kindly, dropping it like a stone in water, because she really does want this to go smoothly. Confusion flickers in his eyes, but she sees the moment that he understands he will never know the answer to his questions, that he will have to live with them, because he gives a hard swallow and a slow nod.

He clears his throat. “I suppose not. What did you wish to see me about today, Lovegood?”

“Oh.” She brightens. “I heard that you had access to moonstone powder! And to catch up, of course, which I’d love to do again. I’ve only met Astoria twice, I think. You two are expecting, right?”

“Yes, we are. She’s due in two months.”

“Congratulations. I’ve got a bracelet of fairy-dust beads and knotgrass that I’ll Owl for her to wear. It should protect her from any stray illnesses she comes in contact with. They like to come in through the wrist, you know.”

“That’s… Very kind. Thank you. Did you say moonstone powder?”

“Mmhmm. And Occamy eggshells, or better yet, the eggs themselves. I’m working on a very delicate potion which will translate into an even more delicate spell when finished, and I’m missing a few ingredients,” she explains. “Harry said," she controls a smile at his quickly hidden flinch, "that it took an incredibly long time — something like ten or twenty years — to get approved to buy them. Unless you already have them, like your family does.”

“Yes,” he says again, more slowly. Draco isn’t a stupid man and she can see him working out the possible uses for anything that requires a combination of those two ingredients, but she keeps her face as placid and unassuming as possible. He hedges, just for a moment. “We have some in our private potions vault. They’re highly regulated because they can be used for so many dangerous things.”

“I’m sure,” she agrees, nodding at him with wide eyes. “Even _I_ wouldn’t use them if I didn’t need to, and I got six Outstanding N.E.W.T.’s. And I’ll pay you, of course.”

There’s a flicker on his face as he absorbs this -- it’s not common knowledge, but no real secret either. Luna only mentions it when she has to.

“That’s impressive,” he tells her, still processing it. It’s nearly impossible to get more than one or two Outstandings on that bloody test. He clicks his tongue, making up his mind. “Of course. How much do you need?”

“As much as five-hundred Galleons will cover?”

He waves a hand. “Nonsense. How much do you need?”

Luna thinks, pushing her lower lip out a bit. Even now, Draco’s eyes are drawn to it, but he swiftly directs his gaze elsewhere. “I can probably manage with—”

“Luna.” Draco says her given name for the very first time and she smiles at him, pleased. “Really. We have plenty.”

She performs a wandless, nonverbal spell that makes her cheeks blush with happiness. “Thank you! How very kind of you. I would be so grateful if you could spare two eggs and… Is three ounces of moonseed powder too much?”

“Not at all.”

“And I’ll send over Astoria’s bracelet,” she promises, “as soon as I get home.”

“Thank you,” Draco returns, with a small smirk. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

***** 

It’s not always sex, although Luna enjoys it when it turns out that way. More, really, than anything else, secrets or potions or spells. Sex is one of the easiest, most satisfying ways to convince people that it’s all their idea to help you, and Luna has no compunction about pulling that card when necessary. Even the _suggestion_ of sex can be highly compelling to people who aren’t supposed to want it -- like the way Professor Flitwick always used to eye her calves with a flush creeping up his neck whenever she would wear dresses. 

She’d gotten a lot of House points from him in fifth year, either because he was attracted to her or because he felt guilty about it. 

Only once, does she ever try the tactic with Harry, and she’ll never make that mistake again. 

Harry is a hard one to crack. If she could love anyone, she thinks it would be him. He’s just so _earnest_ , such a perfectly perfect example of what a hero should be, with the most tempting edges of dark anger that ripple around him when he learns of an injustice.

He’s wily, too, and far cleverer than people give him credit for being -- which is one of the reasons she’s so careful until the single moment she forgets to be.

It’s at an after-party at Grimmauld Place that it happens. Only a select few have been invited to join Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione following the three-year anniversary gala of the Battle of Hogwarts, and Luna considers things to be right on track when Harry sidles up to her during the ball and leans down to whisper, “You got our owl, right?”

“Which owl?” she asks distantly, eyes on the flower-burst of colours coming from the robes of the dancers in the middle of the floor. 

“About the—” He drops his voice even lower, darting a furtive glance around. “About the party. At mine and Gin’s. After.”

Luna quirks a smile up at him. “Of course, Harry! You know how nice I think it is when you remember to invite me to things. Thank you. Did I forget to owl back?”

“You did,” he says wryly, fondness in his eyes. A pink stain spreads over his cheekbones at her gentle reminder that he’d forgotten to send her an invite to Ginny’s birthday. Ginny had remembered at the last minute though, so no harm done. Luna rarely holds grudges when she’s been slighted; if she did, she’d never have time to accomplish anything but revenge.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I even got this for the occasion,” she says, flopping the tail end of her rainbow feather boa at his face. Harry blinks, startled, then sneezes and laughs. 

“You look very nice,” he says dutifully.

She glances down at her ensemble, at the garish purple taffeta embedded with emerald sequins. “Thank you. You too. I think green is your colour.”

His robes match the sequins in her dress, only they’re far more tasteful. They pick out the glints in his eyes, and set off his dark hair. His mouth curves up in an open smile. “People keep telling me that.”

“Oh, then you shouldn’t listen,” she tells him seriously. “When people say things over and over, it’s almost assuredly not true.”

Harry chuckles again. “We’re going to be leaving in a bit, maybe twenty or thirty. We’ll see you there, yeah?”

“I’ll follow along.”

When she can’t find them in the crowd a half hour later, Luna excuses herself to a quiet corner and Apparates to the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, which is still undergoing Ginny’s massive remodel. Ginny invites her over from time to time; she seems to find Luna’s quirks endlessly charming, and even Luna has to admit to understanding why Harry is so in love with her.

The party is already in full-swing by the time she lets herself in. It’s rife with Gryffindors, of course: Neville and Seamus and Dean and George. But there’s also the odd Ravenclaw, like herself, and even a few Hufflepuffs. Not a single Slytherin, which isn’t at all surprising.

Luna gets handed a glass which she holds for the remainder of the night and uses a nonverbal charm to make it seem as though the liquid is diminishing, or has just been refilled, depending on who has seen her last. She chatters on about her studies of rare creatures and laughs slightly deliriously at jokes she then pretends not to understand. But nothing of any real interest happens until later in the evening, when Seamus is almost drunk off his feet, and corners her in the upstairs hallway on his way to the loo.

“’ve always thought you were right pretty, Luna,” he slurs at her, leering. “I like your face.”

Luna rolls her eyes interally and brightens her smile. Seamus is popular, sure, but of no real use to her in any way. “Thank you, Seamus. Your face is pretty, too.”

“You think so?” He steps closer to her. “S’re other parts of me, d’you wanta see?”

Luna catches her snort just before it escapes. The smell of alcohol on his breath is heavy, and he outweighs her by at least sixty pounds, but he's not really the type to cause worry. Anyway, her wand is at the ready and she’s neither intimidated nor curious. And she’s about to tell him so, as well — sweetly — when she hears the distinctive tread of Harry’s gait coming up the stairs.

She opens her mouth slightly and moistens her bottom lip, inhaling until her breasts brush his chest. She drops her eyes to his lips for a second. “Seamus,” she says softly, with a single bat of her eyelashes, and that’s all it takes.

His mouth is awful, slobbering and stinging with the remnants of Firewhiskey. She truly hopes he’s a better kisser sober than he is when he’s drunk, but she arches her chest into it even as she squirms her hips away. His hands skim down her arms and she twitches her wrists in his grasp until he circles them with his fingers and — perfect, she couldn’t have instructed him better — pins them to the wall behind her.

“Seamus,” she pleads against his lips, her fright quiet enough that he won’t hear her over his own loud, drunken moan into her mouth -- but not so subtle that Harry won’t be able to understand that she’s making an objection. She yanks against his hands pinning her and turns her face away. 

“Please—” she says, louder and more desperate.

“Yeah,” he groans, licking at her neck. She squints her eyes open and looks at Harry with a helpless expression. He is staring at the tableau, utter fury dawning in his expressive eyes. 

He moves so fast that he’s a blur, striding across the hallway and pulling Seamus off of her, to shove him back so hard that he slams into the opposite wall. “What the fuck are you doing, Seamus?”

“I—it’s okay, mate, we were just—”

“Yeah, I saw what you were _just_ trying to do to her.” Harry turns to her, coasting reassuring hands up her bare arms. She lets herself sag into him just a little and one of his arms circles her, pulling her close. “Are you okay, Luna? Merlin.”

“Harry, really,” Seamus tries to explain, some of the cobwebs clearing in his brain as he stares at Luna, who helpfully chatters her teeth a bit. “You-- Um, Luna?”

Luna shivers and Harry’s arm tightens. “It’s okay, Seamus. But I think you should probably go home and sober up, now.”

“But—”

“Get the _hell out_ ,” Harry snarls, still cradling her.

She feels dainty and comfortable in his embrace and burrows a little closer, but feels the need to say into his chest, “He really didn’t mean anything, Harry. He’s just had a lot to drink tonight. We all have.”

Harry huffs a sigh but pulls back to inspect her face, which is now (she hopes) attractively tear-streaked. “Are you sure? I could arrest him, hex him, whatever you want.”

She gives him a tremulous smile, then turns her head to address Seamus, who is staring at them with his mouth agape. “You should use the Floo, or else risk Splinching yourself.”

“Luna,” he tries again.

“Just go,” Harry tells him. His voice is still rough but has quieted. 

There’s a pause, followed by a weak, mournful, “I’m really sorry,” and then his unsteady footsteps descend the staircase.

Harry shuffles her into the nearest room, which turns out to be a guest bedroom, she thinks. There are no pieces of clothing spread out haphazardly over furniture or dropped on the floor, and the bed is made up, and there’s a faint orchard scent lingering in the air, as if the room has been cleaned recently. Not exactly what she would picture if she were to imagine where Harry sleeps.

He pulls her onto the fluffy bed next to him, his arm still clamped tightly around her as they sit, and she remembers to tremble a little, for effect. She nestles into him in that way men seem to like. She drops her hand high onto his thigh as if by happenstance. 

“Really, are you all right?" He searches her eyes. "He didn’t—”

“No, you came upstairs in time,” she tells him on a sigh. “Thank you. I was a little… Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry says, dropping a kiss on the top of her hair and then resting his cheek where his lips just touched. He rocks her slightly and Luna feels the slow thump of arousal pool down low, feels the moisture gather between her thighs. Harry smells good, and she’s always wondered— “I’m really sorry, Luna.”

She pulls away, just far enough to look at his face. He’s got worry and — well, _love_ etched across it. It makes her feel special in a way that’s a bit different than how she usually does, which is quite an impressive feat. They’re friends, and she knows that Harry loves his friends, but something in her mind shifts over and for the first time in her life she does something that she knows is a very bad idea. 

She wets her lips again like she did in the hallway, breathing quietly, and allows her hand to fist into the fabric of his trousers. Harry sucks in a sharp breath as she blinks slowly up at him and murmurs, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Harry. Not with me,” and tilts her chin up receptively. Her hand contracts and releases his trousers, then slides further up, an inch or two, and against her pinky she can feel the slowly plumping outline of his cock.

His eyes fall to her mouth and there’s a moment where everything around them stills and she’s sure he’s going to— But he stands abruptly, almost harshly, ripping himself from her gentle grasp and pulling the warm cloak of his hug away. “Luna. I’m engaged to Gin. I love her.”

Damn it. She could’ve gotten a lot from him. She resists the urge to scowl.

He’s looking at her as if he doesn’t even know her, all traces of confused lust from a moment ago wiped clean. Luna tries to never underestimate people and she knows that when suspicion settles on Harry, he’s like a Crup with a bone. She feels a flicker of unease for the briefest moment.

“I—I—” She allows her whole body to shudder, just once, and tears to fill her eyes again. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I don’t— I’ve had too much to drink, but you’re right, that’s no excuse, and I would never— Ginny’s my best friend, you and Ginny both, and… and…” She holds her breath against a sob pushing up in her throat and stares up at him with a stricken expression.

His defensive stance immediately softens. He takes a step forward, reaching a hand out — his instinct is always going to be to help, to comfort — but checks himself. His hand hangs in the air for a moment before falling to his side.

“No,” he tells her earnestly. “It wasn’t your fault. What just happened to you, and then I dragged you in here and you were—were, vulnerable, I guess, and well, you’re very pretty of course, but I shouldn’t have let…”

Luna sniffles, then wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can forget about it if you can,” she says, giving him a wobbly smile.

Harry laughs, a little uncomfortably, but it’s better than nothing. “I suppose it’s hard for people to be close friends for a long time without — occasionally — tripping up in little ways,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

Her smile eases and she looks up at him trustingly. “And now we’ve just had ours, so we don’t need to worry about it again,” she says, more pertly. He nods with relief. Her eyes fall to her lap. “Harry, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about Seamus. It’s a bit embarrassing—”

“It wasn’t your fault!” he objects loudly, startling her a bit.

“Still,” she says firmly. “I know that people tend to think of me as one of those who needs to be taken care of, and, well. Just please. Not even Ginny. You know how she worries. Or Ron and Hermione.”

He hesitates, obviously disliking the idea of Seamus, though drunk, getting away with trying to force himself on her. She does what she can with her posture to make herself seem as delicate as possible, hunching in on herself and picking at her taffeta skirt with idle fingernails. 

At length, he sighs. “Yeah, okay, I won’t. I’m going to have a talk with him, though,” he tells her threateningly. 

She graces him with a small smile. “That’s fine, just keep in mind that he’s our friend, and we’ve all made mistakes.” With a small laugh, she adds pointedly, “Especially when we’ve been drinking. The Wrackspurts can fly in so easily when we’re drinking.”

Harry grins at her, open and affectionate, like before. “C’mon. We should be wrapping up the party, soon. If you’re anything like me, you’ll need to be getting some sleep.”

They head down together and Hermione brightens upon seeing them. “Where did you guys go off to?”

Harry pauses, then shrugs. “Luna wasn’t feeling well.”

“Yes, thank you for sitting with me,” she tells him calmly. “It’s probably time for me to be getting home.”

Hermione’s brow knits. She’s just as drunk as everyone else, which is unusual, but it makes her cheerful and overly-concerned. “Are you feeling well enough to be by yourself?”

“A bit of a headache,” she says, then stumbles a little into the Hermione and gives off a giggle. “Too much to drink.”

“Would you like to come to mine tonight?” Hermione offers. “Ron’s going to take a sobering potion because he’s on duty in an hour.”

Luna wrinkles her nose. “Those are awful.”

“I know,” Hermione agrees emphatically. “I’d much rather take the hangover cure.”

“Oh, I don’t have any of that at my flat,” Luna tells her, pouting a bit. “I’ve forgotten to stock up. Besides which, Daddy doesn’t approve of them; not because of the drinking, mind, but because of the Foibnicks in the kind sold over the counter.”

Hermione’s eyes positively gleam at her, all sisterly affection and comradery. “Well, then, you must join me,” she insists, bossy as ever. “I brew my own — Ron and Harry go to the pub on Friday nights, so it’s nice to keep on hand. We can hold each other’s hair back if we need to, and it’ll be good to have company.”

Luna smiles pleasantly at her.

They end up shagging that night. 

And the following morning. 

Several times.

*****<

Occasionally, Luna wishes she could just stay home and listen to the wireless. But at every party, there’s is a potential secret she can barter with, or a potential acquaintance she may be able to leverage for a favour. People don’t generally talk to her for a long time after introductions, but that’s perfectly fine; she knows how to find the people who are important and ingratiate herself to them with a song in her voice and a sparkle in her eye.

This party, though, is deadly dull, and she’s really unsure why she’s been invited. The guests are mostly made up of middle-management, and not even those types who are just waiting to be promoted. No, these are the sort that linger in their jobs for sixty years without contributing anything real. 

However, she draws a meagre paycheque from the Ministry as a consultant from time to time when they need her opinion on how to best deal with a found magical creature and their experts are on other jobs. So it doesn’t hurt, she supposes, to come to these things and let herself be seen.

Fortunately, there are a few people she recognises: those upper-direct supervisors to the middle-management crew, like Hermione in the corner, talking quietly with Cho Chang. She thinks she spotted Draco and his wife earlier, as well, though he disappeared in a sea of people when he caught her eye. And Harry has shown up for some reason. She watches him linger by the food table and she gets the impression that he’s just sort of wandered in after work; he’s still wearing his Auror robes, and has a small streak of what looks to be ash near his jawline. 

Quietly observing him, she walks up to his side. He doesn’t move from his spot, but he seems entirely uninterested in the food or the drinks. His face is sort of tight and focused in a way that she recognises from their almost-kiss several years ago. She looks at him thoughtfully and takes a sip of her fizzy lime water. His eyes are searching the crowd and he suddenly tenses, relaxes, his face going soft and confused and strangely hungry, all at once. Luna follows his gaze.

Draco Malfoy stands across the room, his head thrown back on a laugh. Astoria is standing close to him, swollen with child, her arm slipped through the crook of his with the ease of long-familiarity. Luna feels a bubble of excitement. She wants to laugh and laugh; and here, she’d thought this thing would be boring.

It can’t be Astoria. From what she’s gathered, Harry would have no reason to interact with her at all. But she knows that Draco consults for the Ministry, too, with the Unspeakables for whatever reason, and occasionally to help the Aurors with some little piece of Death Eater information. Draco has pulled himself far out of that sinking rut he’d been in ten years back, like she knew he would. He looks successful and handsome and confident.

And apparently Harry thinks so, too.

Luna finishes her walk to stand next to him. He doesn’t even notice her presence.

“My, Harry,” she says mildly. “That’s not the way you used to look at him at Hogwarts.”

Harry jerks and swivels his head with comical force to stare at her. “What?”

She purses her lips, plastering on a concerned face. “Have you told Ginny, yet?”

“Told—I don’t have anything to tell her,” he denies, flushing. His eyes are guilty and they flick to Draco again before dragging back to her. “Hi. Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.”

“It’s okay, Harry,” she says soothingly. She rests a gentle hand over his forearm. “The wizarding world isn’t nearly so conservative as it used to be. And you’re you. But it’s not really fair to Ginny, is it, if you haven’t told her?”

As if he would _ever_ break that solid moral compass enough to need to tell her anything. Luna restrains a grin. She wants to flash all of her teeth, but modulates it into something sweeter. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, absently grabbing a drink for something to focus on. He stares into it without taking a sip. 

“About the way you were looking at Draco,” she points out innocently, twisting the knife a bit. It’s almost as if he can feel it physically; he winces, pained. 

“I just haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Really? I thought he helped at the Aurors from time to time.” She cocks her head and considers. “I wonder who told me that. I’ll try to remember so I can let them know they were wrong.”

“No, ah, they weren’t,” Harry admits in a strained voice. “I just— I meant, outside of the Ministry.”

“We’re in the Ministry now,” she says, amused. This is just so unexpected, and so, so delightful. She takes another swallow of her drink. It’s quite refreshing.

“Luna,” he says, low, “Could we not talk about Malfoy, please?”

“Of course, Harry,” she capitulates immediately, frowning in apology. “It must be very difficult for you. I’ll change the subject, okay?”

“Please.”

“Hm. Oh, I meant to ask you— Remember that project I told you about?”

Harry makes a non-committal noise. For all that she knows he cares about her, she can make herself easy to tune out, which someone like Harry tends to do with frustrating regularity. 

“You said something about restricted potions ingredients?” she prods, and he gives a slow nod. 

“Right.” His brows draw down as he searches his mind for the non-existent conversation. “Which ones did you mention?”

“Well, I’ve compiled several on my own,” Luna informs him blithely, “And the forms themselves should really be illegal -- so much paperwork to purchase a few things that shouldn’t even be regulated.”

Harry gives her a strange look, but that’s nothing new. “They’re regulated for a reason, Luna. I’m—sure I mentioned. People use them for the Dark Arts, for dangerous things.”

“Well, _I’m_ not dangerous,” she says practically. “Anyhow, I can’t remember what you were telling me about Occamy eggs and moonseed powder. I think I wrote it down, but you know I Vanish things without thinking, or it could be that Daddy attempts to reorganise my flat when he visits — you probably remember his version of organisation, wonderful thing, he’s so special the way he has so many lists in his head and the way he manages to file away the clutter, but of course it does mean that we lose a lot of things and—”

Harry is smiling when he cuts her off. That’s good. “Occamy eggs are on the illegal substance list. So is moonseed powder. They don’t allow import of either without a requisite waiting period of, I think, fifteen years? If you send me an owl I can remember to check for you.”

“Oh,” Luna sighs fretfully. “And I can’t purchase them in-country? Or go somewhere, France maybe, and bring them home?”

As if she hasn’t tried.

“No,” Harry says kindly, looking regretful. “Sorry, Luna. They’re both really rare and something like eighty percent of their uses are for illegal means. I know St. Mungo’s has a store for emergency medications, and also Hogwarts for potions class, but neither would sell them.” His mouth curves down a little, struck. Luna perks up with interest. “There are a few families that have private potions vaults. The Ministry tried to wrestle control of them away about — what, five years ago? But potions ingredients are like any entailment and they couldn’t touch them unless someone was suspected of illicit activities. Current ones,” he adds, softer, and his eyes wander of their own accord back to where Draco is standing.

“Oh, wonderful!” she chirps, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Draco has some? He’s quite changed since the war— As I’m sure you know.”

Harry casts her a sharp look. Maybe she pushed that one a bit too hard. She gives him a winsome little grin and he softens. “I can’t release the names of people on that list, Luna.”

“And I wouldn’t ask,” she says conspiratorially, as though he’s started a game. “I understand. Thank you, Harry. I’m so glad to have you as my friend.”

He glues on an awkward smile, unsure of how to respond. That’s okay, she doesn’t need any more from him tonight. 

But she feels his eyes linger on her, and she wonders.

*****

Luna’s never gone to bed with a woman before. She’s not really nervous about it, though, because what she _has_ done is read. Read people, read body language, read books and articles. She learned to read at the age of two and while the subjects she chose weren’t always age appropriate — her mother could attest to that — she never stopped seeking information. 

Hermione giggles and Luna smiles at her indulgently when she murmurs, “Thirsty.”

“Really?” Luna asks brightly. “If you really think we should…” She Summons a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey from the direction of the kitchen and it flies obediently into her hand. 

Hermione looks surprised for a moment then shrugs. She takes the bottle from Luna, opens it, and tips it up, taking long swallows before passing it back over. Luna dutifully pretends to take her own swallow before letting the heavy glass bottle settle in her lap. 

Sighing, Hermione brushes back her curls. She’s gotten them under control since Hogwarts and now they coil loosely, with a nice shine, instead of looking as though she’s sat in steam all day. “I hate this day,” she admits.

“Why?” Luna asks. She immediately wants to smack herself because it’s so obvious. 

Fortunately, Hermione doesn’t seem to notice that it’s a stupid question. “Harry died, you know,” she mumbles. “Fred and Lupin and Tonks. So many people. Three years later, they’re having balls to commemorate the event.”

“I know,” Luna says gravely. “It was a very scary night.”

“Yeah. I have dreams, sometimes… They’re not as bad as they were. But I don’t like being alone when it’s dark out,” she confesses, snagging he bottle back from between Luna’s thighs. Luna leaves them open. Her skirt is rucked up a little, and she doesn’t miss the quick glance Hermione gives her.

“Anyway,” Hermione continues, “I’m glad you came over.” Her smile is loose but wide as she shakes off her dreary memories. She’s a cheerful drunk, thank Merlin, and even as Luna thinks it, Hermione gives a definitive nod. “I like drinking.”

“You look good doing it,” Luna says with a laugh. “We should do it all the time.”

“Yes. We’ll meet every night, and get sloppy and legless and, I don’t know, do each other’s hair? I had Muggle sleepovers as a child and they were forever trying to do my hair,” she says. Her head tilts forward and Luna scoots closer on the sofa. She leans in to tug back the liquor and hesitates, close to Hermione’s face.

“I like your hair,” she admits shyly, on a whisper. Their mouths are very close, but she won’t make the same mistake she made with Harry. She could be off tonight, reading the signals all wrong.

Hermione reaches out, threading her hands through Luna’s pale yellow locks. She’s let them grow out down to her waist, which she knows makes her look innocent and appealing. “I like yours, too. I always thought it was really pretty,” Hermione muses, almost to herself.

“You think I’m pretty?” Luna says hopefully. She leans in a little more. Her breasts brush against Hermione’s arm. “I’ve always thought you were pretty.”

“No, your hair,” Hermione corrects absently, out of habit. “But you, too, actually.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Luna says, catching Hermione’s warm brown gaze and widening her eyes slightly. Hermione's breath is turning just a touch choppy. Her hands move deeper into the strands of Luna’s hair, short, manicured nails scraping her scalp. Luna lets go of a breathy moan and flutters her eyes closed.

Then Hermione’s mouth is on hers, tentative, like even she can barely believe what she’s doing. It’s a good kiss, miles apart from Seamus. She kisses carefully, thoughtfully, slanting her head sideways before opening her mouth and touching her tongue to the seam of Luna’s lips. Luna opens up for her and the kiss gets more intent but somehow manages to stay lazy. She feels that same flicker of arousal in her groin that she felt from Harry and most certainly did not expect from Hermione. No, this was meant to be a practical step, should Hermione prove to be interested. And yet Luna finds herself shifting over, pulled by Hermione’s hands to drape Luna across her lap. Luna adjusts herself, straddling Hermione and pressing her into the sofa. And it’s all just so _good_.

Hermione has only been at the Ministry for a couple of years, but the amount of influence she yields nears Harry’s. Luna can’t imagine what heights she’ll climb to over the course of the next decade, over the course of her life. And this sets the stage for anything Luna might need from her in the future.

The best part is, in the morning, Hermione will remember that she was the one who kissed first.

Luna's never really considered Ron as an option, she thinks, as Hermione fumbles a warm hand into the bodice of her sparkly purple dress. Her hand closes around Luna’s breast, her palm soft against Luna’s tightened nipple. No, Ron has never, not once, looked at her in any way that signified sexual interest. And while he makes a good Auror, she’s sure, he’ll never approach the kind of power that Hermione and Harry will have. 

She picked well, she congratulates herself, even as her hips begin to undulate on top of Hermione. She feels dizzy and out of oxygen as the kiss goes on and on and Hermione’s free hand comes up under her flipped skirt to press, flat, against her mound. 

“Tha—that feels so…” She wriggles against it. 

It’s not perfect, but it has so much potential. She has no doubt that Hermione has never been with a woman either, but they somehow stumble their way over to the bedroom and fall onto the bed, still kissing. And then dresses are being peeled off, and Hermione’s body is rather gorgeous: her skin is browner than Luna’s, which creates a good contrast, her breasts full and dark-tipped, her waist slender. The curls between her legs are black and she groans as Luna slips a finger inside of her, then another, and pumps them in and out slowly. Her thumb finds Hermione’s clit and she rubs at it carefully and then with more pressure when Hermione bucks against her, shoulders pressing deep into the mattress, the curve of her belly arching upward as her spine flexes.

Hermione slides her thigh between Luna’s legs, distractedly capturing one of Luna's nipples in her mouth as she writhes beneath her. Luna takes advantage, riding against Hermione's leg slowly, feeling the tension build and build as all of her nerves dance to life. Hermione is spread out beneath her, wanton and flushed, her straight white teeth sunk so hard into her bottom lip that Luna thinks she might see a thread of blood trailing down soon. That turns her on; she likes that a lot, oh yes. 

She thrusts her fingers faster, glancing down as they disappear into Hermione’s slick, clinging muscles. She increases the circling pressure of her thumb, and Hermione moves her leg accordingly against Luna, who grinds down on it as she absently wonders if Ron is bad in bed or if Hermione is always just so _into_ it. It's so often the ones you wouldn't expect. Then Hermione jerks against her, throwing her head to the side and closing her eyes as she shudders. Luna gentles her thumb but keeps speed with her fingers, and Hermione cries out, “God, _yes!_ ” on a long moan, shivering, then goes still.

Luna carefully removes her fingers and wipes them on the bedcovers. She hasn’t come yet and doesn’t expect to at this point — she should have held Hermione off for another few minutes. She feels a tight, lingering ache in her cunt, but Hermione looks so relaxed and she certainly can’t _ask_ for it, so she’s at a loss for a moment with how to proceed.

But then, much to her surprise, Hermione’s leg begins to move again. Luna pops open her eyes wide to see Hermione staring up at her. Slowly enough that she seems timid, Luna begins rocking against her again. Hermione’s hands come up to grip her hips and she guides Luna against herself, so Luna gives herself over to it, allows herself to feel it, all the pressure and the want wrapped up so tight against her, Hermione’s mouth resuming its teasing suck over Luna's tits, her smooth thigh rubbing Luna just where she most needs it. Luna arches, gasping, throwing her long hair in Hermione’s face as her climax overtakes her, all of her muscles throbbing with release. 

She lets herself fall to the side and, after a few moments, gives Hermione a sad little smile. “Should I go?”

“No, you can stay,” Hermione says quietly. Hm. “Let’s go to sleep, though.”

They crawl in under the covers together. Luna’s pillow smells like masculine sweat and aftershave, and she wishes she could cast a charm to turn it into something nicer, but she doesn’t want Ron suspecting anything. At least, not unless she decides he needs to.

Luna lays beside her quietly, listening to the almost endearing chuff-chuff sounds of Hermione’s snores. She allows herself to feel satisfied about the success of the evening and drops off to sleep.

When she wakes up, it’s to sunlight pouring in the window and the steady, lapping pressure of Hermione’s tongue against her clit. For a second she wonders if she’s still dreaming, but no, she’s soaking wet with her own juices and Hermione’s saliva, and she glances down to see Hermione’s face buried between her legs. She’s stretched out at an odd angle between Luna’s thighs, face and shoulders forward, but the rest of her body sideways, and Luna can see one of Hermione’s hands twitching against her own cunt as she holds Luna’s folds open with the other and licks and licks and _licks._

“Hermione?” she asks softly, then reaches down to press Hermione’s face closer because she wants to seem confused but not unwilling (which she isn’t). Hermione makes a humming sound, latches her lips over Luna’s clit, and _sucks_.

Luna keens loudly, hips flying up, hands desperate in Hermione’s hair. She’s not really sure that she likes this, likes being out of control and giving someone else the power, except that — inexplicably — she _does_. Her breath comes in loud, broken pants as Hermione swirls her tongue and slides a three fingers inside of her all at once, and the blurry feeling of sleep and arousal crash together as Luna comes _hard_ , startling herself and she thinks Hermione too, whose hand moves like a blur against herself until she’s moaning against Luna’s convulsing body. 

She climbs up while Luna stares at the ceiling in astonishment and gives her a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Her lips and chin are shiny and Luna can taste herself on them. It’s not unpleasant.

They lay in silence for a few minutes after Hermione collapses on her side.

Filing through a dozen responses, Luna finally decides on, “How is Ron going to take this?” She makes her voice small and worried. 

Hermione cups her bare breast and squeezes it gently, giving a giggle that makes Luna want to frown at her. She doesn’t.

“I've always been attracted to women but I'd never gotten the chance to be with one because Ron and I got together so young,” Hermione explains after a moment, smiling. “Ron actually thinks it’s hot. We agreed I could try with someone, if I gave him all the details after.”

And that will _not do_. Anger rises in Luna, hot and enticing, and she nurses the idea of making another Horcrux for a single, tempting second. 

Instead, she lets out a wounded noise, letting her big blue eyes find Hermione’s sweet brown ones. 

“What?”

Luna rolls away and sits up. She finds her wand on the floor and Summons her clothing. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I thought— I thought we were friends,” she says, chin trembling.

“Luna, we are.” Hermione pauses. She’s smart, this one. Her mind goes unerringly where Luna wants it to, and with barely any guidance. “I should have— I should have talked to you about it, first. I’d been thinking of asking you, but then last night— We were both drunk, and you were so… I’m sorry,” she finishes soberly, looking down at the floor. “I’m absolutely so sorry. You’re right. I should have explained. Or asked.”

Luna sucks in a slow, deep breath, meeting her eyes again. “I just— I knew it wasn’t right, but I’ve always— always fancied you. And then, when you kissed me, I thought… I don’t know what I thought,” she admits mournfully. “I know you love Ron. But I didn’t think it was about him. Or you. I guess I supposed it was about us.”

Hermione’s stands naked before her, her face absolutely wretched. She’s even wringing her hands. Good. Luna takes a nice, hard look for her Pensieve, later. 

Firming her bare shoulders, Hermione seems to make a decision. She strides over and takes Luna’s clothing from her hands, dropping them on the floor and pressing a kiss against her pliant mouth. “It was,” she whispers. “Even if it didn’t start out that way. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re my friend. Come back to bed.”

Luna doesn’t move. She chews on her lip, debating, and gives Hermione a worried look. “And you’re not going to tell Ron ‘all the details?’”

“No,” Hermione promises firmly. “This is just between us. Just _for_ us. I won’t tell him it was you. And I won’t give him details, either.”

Finally, Luna gives her a tentative smile and allows herself to be pulled forward. She likes that Hermione is loyal, but also pragmatic enough to bend that loyalty when her own ethics tell her she’s done something wrong. And as distasteful as it is that Luna forgot to get all of the information before falling into bed with Hermione, she likes that she can now add guilt to the things Hermione feels toward her.

It’s like with Draco, only better, because she’s confident she can manipulate at least another few of those fantastic orgasms out of the situation.

*** 

Luna knocks softly on the half-open door, peeking her head inside. Hermione looks slightly harassed, her desk covered with stacks of files as she peruses some parchment in front of her. 

She looks up, sees Luna standing there patiently, and her face warms. “Luna!”

Luna wavers in the doorway. “Is this a bad time? You look busy. I can come back later. Maybe bring some of Daddy’s mind-tuning tea?”

A tolerant flicker sparks in her eyes. “No, that’s all right. I still have some left from the last batch. You actually have perfect timing, though; I could use a break. Come on in.”

Luna does. She sits down in one of the leather chairs across from the desk. “You still have some left?” she asks, confused. “Maybe you’re not taking enough; it’s been over a year since we gave it to you.”

Abashed, Hermione bites her lip, and Luna quivers with repressed amusement.

“No, I— You’re right, I should drink it more often. It’s a bit bitter,” she admits.

“Oh, honey doesn’t counteract the effects,” Luna informs her brightly. The stuff is terrible, and would stay terrible if one were drinking honey with a dash of the tea.

“Good to know. What brings you down here? Are you working on a case?”

Luna waves the folder in her hand in an abstract way. “I was. A herd of aging thestrals was found on the fringes of Kent and they needed someone who could link with them mentally. They tend to get disoriented after about a hundred and fifty years, but I was able to shepherd them to a magical sanctuary before any of them got hurt.” She sighs. “But I had to do some paperwork, too, and honestly, I’m having some trouble with it. I was wondering if you would know who to direct me to that could help me so I don’t end up waiting months for an appointment?”

“Of course,” Hermione says. Luna hands her the folder and she starts skimming it.

“We haven’t had lunch together in a while,” Luna muses as Hermione reads. “We should make plans; I do miss our lunches.”

Hermione makes a little sound of assent. Lunch became a regular event, at least once a week, after their night-and-day together. They both behaved with perfect decorum toward one another, not even deigning to bring up sex with other people the way Luna assumes all friends occasionally do. (Ginny certainly does, much to Luna’s consternation; she doesn’t like being reminded of things she can’t have.) But the afternoons were always pleasant, and helped secure the emotional link that Hermione felt toward her.

“Luna, what do you need these _for_?” Hermione asks without looking up.

“The alchemy experiment I told you about,” she says calmly. Hermione finally lifts a surprised gaze at her. It’s a common gambit for her, but a risky one with Hermione, who tends to remember so many things — except that Luna knows just how much of what she says is heard with half an ear. 

“Alchemy experiment? I don’t remember that.”

That’s unfortunate. 

Or maybe not.

Luna shifts, a touch uncomfortably. She gives Hermione a sweetly embarrassed smile. 

“We were both drunk at the time,” she confesses. “And you gave me some really helpful advice about how it could benefit the wizarding economy?”

Hermione’s brows knit, then her eyes widen. “Oh, you mean when—”

“Yes,” Luna agrees, voice going a touch lower as she allows herself to stare at Hermione with what she hopes reads as lust. “ _That_ night.”

Hermione pinks up in a rather fetching way. She bites her lip. “I don’t... remember talking about that.”

Luna looks away and makes her cheeks bloom as well. “There were more memorable things that night to think on, afterward.”

“Yes.” When she looks back, Hermione’s face is kind, as if those memories are as sweet for her as Luna hopes. 

“Did you—” Luna clears her throat delicately. “Did you ever end up telling Ron?”

“No,” she says, smiling. “Well, yes. That it happened. That I enjoyed it. But not that it was you. And not the details, remember I promised.”

“Those were just for us, you said,” Luna whispers, catching her eyes. Hermione inhales swiftly through her nose and breaks their gaze. “Was he angry?”

“He wasn’t pleased,” Hermione says dryly. “But mostly that I wouldn’t share.”

“Do you ever think about, maybe—” Luna is pleased with how her voice comes out, strained with desire, and she swallows hard for effect. 

“No, I don’t.” Looking down at the papers in her hands, she murmurs, “It was a wonderful night, but I’m happy.”

“I’ve missed our lunches,” Luna repeats, bringing it back, adopting a wistful tone. “I thought maybe you didn’t want to see me.”

“Luna, no,” Hermione says, looking at her seriously. She waves a hand over the work spread out on her desk. “I’ve just gotten so busy in the last few years. Every promotion comes with more paperwork and later nights, and now that I’m expecting, I’m so tired all the time.”

“Mind-tuning tea,” Luna reminds her, friendlier now.

Hermione’s face relaxes. “I’ll try. And we’ll make plans, soon.” She glances down at the paperwork again. “You said something about the economy?”

Luna smiles, both vague and bright at once. “I think you actually gave me a little spreadsheet on the how we were on the precipice of a soft recession headed toward a full one, and you were right. Well, not according to Daddy, but he doesn’t pay much attention.” She flaps her hand affectionately. “I’ve written out scrolls and scrolls of parchment tracking my efforts. I could send you copies if you’d like to look them all over. They’re not terribly well-organised unless you’re me, and they do cover about the last six years since our conversation, but I know how much you love to read about interesting things,” she says, making it sound like a compliment. “Obviously, if my experiments go wrong, no harm done.”

She sees the internal debate rage within Hermione for a moment as she looks at her overflowing desk and weighs the rarity and potential danger of the items on Luna’s list with actually having to read years’ worth of Luna’s ramblings. When Hermione finally shakes her head, slowly, Luna wants to crow with triumph.

“N-no, I’m sure you’ll be careful. You got an O on your Potions N.E.W.T., right?”

“And Arithmancy as well,” she says, nodding. She somehow thinks it will work against her if Hermione becomes overtly aware that Luna got six as opposed to her own three. 

“Okay. Well, it’s not really my department, but it’s in my purview to approve or deny any acquisitions requested of rare or regulated materials.” Hermione nods, plucks a quill from her desk, and signs the documents with a flourish. She holds them out to Luna, who has made herself very interested in the tiny moving sculpture of a flower on the edge of the desk. “Luna?”

Luna looks up, distracted. “Oh. Yes? This is pretty.”

“Thanks, it was a gift from Ron. Here you go.” She passes back the file.

“Oh, yes. Who did you say I should talk to?”

Hermione laughs. “No one! I just signed them. Take them down to Restricted Ingredients — three floors down, I believe — and give them this. It should be no trouble. Except for the Occamy Eggs and the moonseed power, I’m sorry. Those are illegal substances.”

Luna pauses in the middle of her surprised/grateful/dreamy expression. She lets her face fall. “How could I get them?”

Hermione shrugs. “I don’t know. Harry and Ron would know better than me, actually. They took down a potions ring last year and I remember them talking about ingredients like these.”

Luna lifts the file. “Well, thanks for these, though. I should get started.”

“No problem."

Luna gets up with a smile and has almost reached the door when Hermione’s voice calls her back. “Luna?”

Luna half-turns, heart picking up for a second before it slows. “Yes?”

“I’m free for lunch on Monday,” Hermione says.

“I can come by at noon,” Luna says with pleasure.

“Perfect, I’ll see you then.”

Luna walks out, holding her grin deep inside. It takes all of her considerable control to not clutch the file of signed documents close to her chest in gratification.

*** 

When Luna was four, she read the complete works of Nicolas Flamel and immediately knew what she wanted for the rest of her life. Oh, she had no plans to wait until she was in her nineties to start like he had, or to live out millennia as an old woman. No, she would accomplish her task by the age of thirty, the same age as her mother, who was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.

Her mother was smart, like her, and usually didn’t try to moderate Luna’s intellectual growth. Instead, she seemed proud. Luna often wondered at her parent’s union, how someone like her mother could fall so hopelessly in love with someone like her father. But it made for a pleasant life for her, so she had no objections.

Her home, though untidy and strange from what she could discern by reading about wizarding — and even Muggle — norms, was filled to the brim with every kind of book she could ever want for. Many of the titles were obscure and out of print but she’d read two-thirds of them by her eighth birthday, always hungry for more. Maybe that was what her mother liked: that Luna's father was such a cluttered creature that he could forget half the things he had bought or inherited. They often found stacks of unread books like little treasures beneath the floorboards and behind the talking clock, or half-transfigured into a table to hold more books and other devious little items. As a child, Luna figured that if she were to marry someday, it would be to a wizard like her father, who enjoyed books and strange things and always seemed to forget the important things you accidentally told him. Her life was fairly carefree. Her mother trusted her to not throw herself into dangerous situations like other children — she’d never once broken a bone — and her father petted and indulged her every whim.

It wasn’t until the age of nine that she received any sort of discipline but once she did, she discovered that she didn’t like it at all. And it was all over a book.

_The Dark Magic of Eternal Life_ pulsed when she first picked it up. Literally pulsed, throbbing in her hands, and then it seemed to—to _breathe_. Luna was fascinated, and plunked down on her sofa to read the whole thing from cover to cover in one afternoon. She was on the final pages when her mother came in, stopped, and looked at her with an expression Luna had never seen before.

“Where did you get that book?” she asked fearfully.

“In the attic.” Luna smiled.

“I’ve told you to bring anything that has Dark Magic in the title to me first so that I can explain things to you,” her mother said. 

“Yes, but you weren’t here,” she pointed out practically. Her mother sucked in a breath.

“No,” she said at last, stripping off her gloves. She was holding her wand rather tight. “I was visiting the Roth’s. Their litter of Kneazles was found dead last night and they wanted to make sure there wasn’t a magical contagion that would spread to the rest of their pets.” She paused. “They were very upset.”

“They’re just Squibs,” Luna said, shrugging. She finished the book and set it aside.

“There were traces of bloodletting,” her mother said carefully, sitting down next to her. 

“Kneazle blood is useful for a lot of things,” Luna piped up cheerfully. “So is the blood of most magical creatures.”

“L-Luna.” Her mother’s voice shook. “I recognised the magic, but I couldn't believe... You didn’t— You wouldn’t— Did you?”

“I _need_ things, Mother,” Luna said, looking up at her. “Things to practice with, at least. So I can make the Philosopher’s Stone by the time I’m thirty. And you said we can’t afford a full potions cabinet.”

Her mother made a small, choked noise. Her eyes rested searchingly on Luna’s face and when Luna smiled at her, she turned away. 

“All of those stolen magical objects,” she breathed shakily, to herself. “All of those animals. For the last two years. And I didn’t see it.”

“Well, why would you?” Luna answered, though she wasn’t being asked a question. “I didn’t say.” 

Her mother turned, grasping her shoulders abruptly. Her grip was too tight, and Luna stared at her, displeased. “You must stop this at once, Luna. People— They see things. You’re my brilliant girl, but there are other ways to get what you want. Ways that don’t rely on hurting people. I can get you help.”

Luna didn’t like the way her mother was looking at her. No, not at all. As though Luna had changed in a split second, as though she'd become someone monstrous. 

She thought for a moment, very carefully. 

In her quests to experiment, to learn how to get what she wanted, she had perhaps revealed too much of herself. It wasn’t the smartest thing, maybe, or the most effective, chasing down the neighbour’s pets. She read Muggle textbooks; she knew what people would call her if they knew the things she liked to do and the goals she had in her mind. But there had to be a more subtle way of obtaining what she wanted without giving anything away.

After all, people were so easily led to believe the things they wanted to, when you gave them the slightest push.

If Luna had been able to feel regret, she would have felt it for her mother.

As it was, Luna’s _Avada Kedavra_ came out clean and fast as an apology for scaring her so. Her mother’s face registered only a moment of surprise before she fell.

Setting up the display to make it look as though her mother had died during her own experimental spell only took a few minutes. The Horcrux took quite a bit longer — it wasn’t _quite_ as simple as the breathing book had claimed. But when it was done, it transferred beautifully into a tiny butterfly locket her mother had given her, and beat out a steady pulse — like the book — against her collarbone. And she felt no different than before.

Luna was nine when she realised that she had to be more careful about her activities, and the way people viewed her. The power of killing was alluring — temporary though it was — but she wasn’t the murdering type. People _came after_ those that committed murder. 

And Luna would never let herself be caught.

***** 

She accomplishes her goal nearly three years ahead of schedule. All of her work, all of her contacts and favours and insipidly daft smiles have given her the edge she needs and so, two days after her twenty-seventh birthday, Luna pulls her Philosopher’s Stone out of a bowl filled with calcified unicorn blood and holds it up to the light. It’s a deep, glowing, reflective red, and feels hot in her hand. It’s perfect. Everything is perfect.

She feels the tingle of magic on the back of her neck, alerting her that someone has broken through the wards of her lab, and pockets the stone casually. 

She’s waiting in her comfiest chair when Harry walks in.

In truth, she’s not even surprised that it’s him. She’d actually sort of hoped it would be.

He pauses when he sees her, legs crossed and arms relaxed, reclining in her chair. She raises her eyebrows, and his mouth presses into a tight line, turning white at the edges. He stalks into the room.

The wards around him shimmer briefly before fading. Luna raises her eyebrows, then gestures to the seat across from her.

“How nice to see you, Harry,” she says lightly, tilting her head to the side. “What a surprise. If you had Owled, I could have had tea ready for us.”

“Cut the crap, Luna.”

She laughs a little, at that. “I really would have, you know. It’s almost tea-time, anyway.”

“Draco didn’t rape you.”

She smirks. “Draco now, is it? Finally got around to shagging him? It’s been almost a year since that party, but I really didn’t expect you would give in.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says, gritting his teeth. She’s got him on the defensive, and they’ve barely exchanged two words. How fun.

“But you want to. You two have gotten close enough to exchange confidences, hm? I wonder how Ginny feels about it.”

Harry breathes hard, in and out, through his nose, a bit like a maddened bull. But then he surprises her — she’s always so pleased when someone can — and just sort of seems to master his anger, something she was unaware he had learned to do. His face settles, which is a shame. He’s quite beautiful when he’s furious. He gestures to the chair she'd pointed to. At her nod, he lowers himself into it.

“Draco didn’t rape you,” he says again.

“Of course he didn’t,” she agrees mildly. “I never said he did.”

“You let him think — for years — that he had.”

Luna gives a regretful shrug. “Well, it’s true he didn’t exactly ask first, and that I was a prisoner in his home at the time. Technically—”

“You orchestrated it,” Harry says flatly. “The whole thing. Seamus, too, I’m willing to wager.”

“Yes.” So he hasn’t talked to Seamus about his suspicions. Likely just ran over here in a burst of Gryffindor passion and protectiveness.

Harry nods, looking around for a moment while he gathers his thoughts. She lets him; it’s an interesting conversation. She notes that he’s not holding his wand but everyone knows that Harry is powerful and that he frequently uses wandless magic.

Everyone knows that about _him._ But no one knows it about _her_ , which makes her glad even though she genuinely hopes she doesn't have to use it. She settles back further into her squashy chair with a smile, hoping he feels comfortable too. Her wand is at her workstation, several feet away.

“Ron and Hermione are having a row,” Harry informs her at length.

Luna automatically withholds a snicker before realising she doesn’t have to. Harry doesn’t seem to the like the sound but it feels good coming out, so. “Are we talking about Draco, or Ron and Hermione?” she asks sweetly when she’s done.

“You slept with Hermione.”

“Years ago,” she tells him, waving it off as though it doesn’t matter. Because it doesn’t, except to her. She wonders idly why Hermione told Ron, after all this time. “Is he upset with her?”

“Do you care?”

“Let’s just say I’m curious,” she deflects. That angry, flinty look comes back into Harry’s eye and she shivers with delight.

“You’ve been gathering rare, dangerous ingredients from people,” Harry says. “What are you making, Luna?”

“Draco, Ron and Hermione, my project. I’ll answer any of your questions, if you’ll pick a topic.”

“They’re all one and the same, though, aren’t they?” Harry asks grimly.

She graces him with a brilliant smile. He’s not nearly so smart as she is, but she really is glad it was him. If Luna could feel proud of someone, she’d feel proud of Harry right now. "Yes. Good question. And Neville and Kingsley and McGonagall. Seamus and Narcissa Malfoy and you. A lot of different people, really, in a lot of different ways.”

“What are you making?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I should arrest you.”

Luna laughs again. She likes her laugh -- it sounds like music, like tinkling bells, and so she allows herself to do it for a long time. “Really, Harry. For what?”

He makes a growling noise. “For false accusations. For the illegal requisition of dangerous ingredients. For a lot of things, I'll bet. And I’ll find out all of them.”

“Who did I make false accusations about? Draco? Never,” Luna says, still giggling. “Seamus? Did I ever tell you he attacked me? And how, exactly, did I _illegally_ obtain anything?”

“Blackmail,” he says abruptly. Luna draws back and considers him.

“Who did I blackmail, Harry?”

“You tried to— with me. About Draco,” he spits out.

“So then you are sleeping with him!” She grins. “How nice for you two. He was fairly good in bed ten years ago, and we were both virgins at the time. Moved a little too fast, a little too hard. I bet he’s gotten better by now. Has he? What does Ginny think about it?”

His eyes light briefly in triumph, then darken as he runs her words through in his mind again. Smart boy. She wishes she were the kind of person to take on a partner; if she were, and he were amenable, she’d definitely pick him. 

“I would never do that to Ginny,” he tells her coldly, his face twisting in disgust. It’s so much more boring than his angry expression. And he’s lying, too -- Luna doesn’t know how far it’s gone with Draco, but _something_ has happened between them. Something big enough that he’s practically vibrating with _want_ whenever she says Draco’s name. And both Ginny and Astoria, with babies at home. She files the information away for future use.

“Pity,” she says lightly, casting a wicked smile at him. “I bet you’d have a lot of fun. Do invite me to watch if you ever leap off that high horse of yours.”

There’s a brief moment where the look he gives her is so filled with grief that she’s taken aback, as if he’s mourning something important lost to him. Then, if possible, his face gets even colder, and she understands -- she’s no longer his friend, not even a person to him now. She’s crossed that line, apparently, with her lack of regret and her cheeky explanations. It certainly doesn’t make her feel _good_ , but she’s not nine years old anymore, and not one to behave recklessly. It had been impossible to leave no breadcrumbs to her machinations, but she’s done the best she could, and her best is near-perfect.

Harry stands, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring down at her. “Fine. I may not be able to arrest you — yet — but I’ll be talking to… Who did you say? Oh, yeah: Kingsley and McGonagall and Neville and Narcissa and lots of other people until I find how I _can_. And in the meantime, as you’ve pointed out, people trust me. At my word, they won’t ever trust you again. No one will.”

He starts to stride out, but the sound of Luna’s wild laughter — this is the most fun she’s had in years, really — halts him. He turns around suspiciously. “What.”

“N-n-nothing,” she wheezes. “Go right ahead. Tell everyone.”

“What have you done?” Harry demands, voice rough. “Is it a weapon? A poison? What?”

“A charm,” Luna supplies, shaking her head with a smile. 

He blinks and pins her with a narrow gaze. “A charm.”

“Harry,” she says gently, “do you really think I’m going to go to all of this trouble — all of this effort — and not protect myself? Really. I’ve known how little you thought of me for years. Don’t deny it,” she says with no small amount of mirth, though he’s made no start to do so, “It’s true. But I’m a Ravenclaw who was almost placed in Slytherin; indeed, by a very narrow margin. I quite think that’s a much more interesting thing than someone who’s a Gryffindor by choice.”

“What charm?”

“A room charm,” she says, placid as a summer’s lake. “Didn’t you feel it in the wards when you entered my lab? Tickles a bit.”

“What does it do?” he challenges, unafraid. “Kill me? Because I’ll have you know that Draco has his suspicions, too, now. He’s looked over my Pensieve memory of Seamus. Hermione knows how you’ve gotten all of the ingredients.”

Luna nods thoughtfully. Harry, Draco, Hermione and probably Ron. If there were fifty people it wouldn’t be too much, but smaller groups tend to respond more effectively. She’s been experimenting by bringing wizards into this room for _years_. 

“No, Harry. You’re not going to die. Or get ill or anything so wasteful as that. I wouldn’t do that to you.” She sighs. Really, the charm shares a few components with the Imperius curse —bnothing illegal, of course, it’s her own design and she’s very careful — so it’s perfectly possible he’ll be able to throw it off.

Not likely, but possible. 

“You should go,” she says, affecting a sad tone. “Tell everyone about me. What I’ve done. I deserve it.”

Then she ruins it by snorting.

Harry makes a low sound again, that growl that gives her shivers, and swirls on the heel of his trainers. He hesitates — just for a second — at the precipice of the door, then marches through. He’s probably left a letter or something in case she decided to kill him. 

Oh, well, that’ll Vanish, too. 

Just like all of his suspicions of her. Anything that’s not a pleasant memory of daffy-sweet Luna will simply disappear. He’ll feel a bit drunk for a few minutes, until he clears her street, and then more refreshed than he has or a long time. His skin will tingle. He’ll feel the inexplicable urge to seek out everyone who suspects anything about her. And every single person he comes in skin contact with will forget all of... Everything, really, as it’s applicable to her extracurriculars. 

It’s a beautiful little charm. She’s been improving upon it since she was thirteen. It _may_ be why her father has gotten a bit more loopy in recent years -- t’s probably not very nice of her to keep using it on him.But one does what one must.

Harry stops again in the hallway outside of her lab. He wobbles a little, bringing a hand up to his forehead, and she smiles. 

Then he turns, sees her sitting there, and her smile fades away. His expression is indecipherable; neither angry nor vengeful nor fond. She wonders if he’s trying to fight it off; she wonders if he really _can_.

He walks away slowly and Luna stares at the blank space where he stood for a moment. She checks her pocket for the Stone and grips it reassuringly. 

If her charm worked, she’ll be able to live a life filled with luxury and friendship and all of the secret manipulations she holds so close to her heart. For a very, very long time. She’ll have to pretend to age with everyone else, but there’s no rule to say that she has to stay in London for the rest of her life. She can come back for visits.

If the charm didn’t work, well… She looks around at her pretty little lab, so cosy, and _almost_ wishes she cared about anything enough that she would miss it. 

She’ll write to Hermione in about a month, she decides, and figure out what to do by the response she gets back.

In the meantime, Luna likes travel. And it’s probably time for a nice, long vacation.

She’s earned it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Feel free to flame me over this. lol


End file.
